The Coming of Light by Mark Strand by 1934 –2014; Proof ~ Cornelius Eady; (Poem for inauguration of Zohran Mamdani) The Shop by Joyce Sutphen; Dementia Sonnet by Justin Rigamonti; Crepuscule with Muriel by Marilyn Hacker ; December Morning by W.S. Merwin; Issa's Porch by Steve Williams
[1] go to minute 34 on the youtube for Cornelius' remarks. He reads the poem at minute 3:00.
Nutshell:
Coming of Light: In seven lines, laden with l's, one senses that "late" is that moment at the end of one's life. The opening poem of his volume, The Late Hour, (2002), Strand delivers images such as candles "lit as if by themselves", and dreams that "pour into your pillows", and repeats "Even this late", as if to confirm that love is always ready to bloom. One thinks of the parallel Festival of Lights and the tone is one of reassurance even in the dark. At Rundel, Cass shared her favorite poem by Strand Moontan
filled with the same sense of magic.
Proof: Curiously, I had heard at first, the title as Truth, knowing the context of this poem delivered by Rochester native, Cornelius Eady on the occasion of Zohran Mamdani's Inauguration as mayor of NYC.
note: third stanza, 10th line: the first word is not will but where.
One person felt it was a beautiful love poem to this city, the starting point of so many who have immigrated to this country. The lines are humble, yet powerful, with the repeated "you have to imagine"
shifting to an almost imperative "you've got to imagine". What reassurance wrapped in the repeated "who said" as he rolls out dismissive talk that tries to invisibilize those who are not part of the powerful and privileged. The inclusion of the James Baldwin quote, with visceral touches of details describing those who have risen up from slavery, "the taste of us, the spice of us, the hollers and rhythms of us" lead to the repeated "up from" -- to a new hope infused with joy "that wears down the rock of no."
Like the first poem's mention of candles, there is a sense of the city lit by itself, an insistence hammering out the celebration many felt with the election of Obama, that yes, the election of a Black Man to an important public office is absolute proof that all "can make it". Listen to the Poem, [1]
It's inspiring for all of us to imagine all the "lucky selves waiting for our arrival, with soil for our roots".
The Shop: I mentioned the trick of photographers in a city landscape to "put in a person". Here, the poet has written a love poem to the person who occupies this shop. We think, it might be if not her father, a special father-figure. It starts with an unassuming title, and tercets stuffed with adjectives to describe all the old-fashioned (non-plastic) tools. The soul of the person is hinted at -- first a finger, then a mask for a face, arriving at the tender metaphor of the "work-lathered leather" of the old harnesses,
soft as the reins of memory/guiding him through the tangle/of one year into another.
We discussed the mood created by the mention of the dusty light, the vise that could crush , the mouthless face of the welding mask, the sense of honest work. There's a sense of wistfulness, but not sorrow.
A small aside about spelling of vise: In Britain, there are two acceptable versions of the spelling: vice and vise. It is clearly not the abstraction of vice, but the physical presence of a piece of equipment that holds things in place.
Crepuscule with Muriel: Do click on the hyperlinks for Muriel Rukeyser (1913-1980)
here : https://poetryarchive.org/poem/crepuscule-muriel/
Note how each end word has a /k/, or /x-cks/ sound. One can imagine Hacker on the NYC subway, reminiscing about her older mentor who indeed suffered from several strokes. Her deft description brings alive what it is like to be locked inside a body after a stroke-- in this case Muriel's mind and her "dream-life logic" -- how she encodes it "in nervous tics/translated to a syntax with connects/intense and unfashionable politics/with morning coffee, Hudson sunsets, sex"
This poem is from the collection Desesperanto, a combination word of despair and esperanto, the artificial language intended to be universally understood. It describes Hacker's life as a lesbian, the illness of loved ones, anger over world events.
For an image of the penultimate line animal warmth of bricks, I share what the French would call "crepuscule du matin". The word refers to the kind of luminosity the sun brings both at sunrise and sunset.
photos by Gabriel Saphar
Shortly after sunrise, 1/8/2026
Dementia Sonnet: The opening sentence with its flat statement about relief, with an enjambment after doesn't/ falling on remember is unnerving. My initial thought without ending the sentence, is the contradiction that there's relief in loving someone who doesn't -- but doesn't what? Love? Who can't love back? (There's relief in loving someone who doesn't/remember you.)
Fortunately, twelve lines later, one arrives at relieves, and the verb expands the meaning to imply "responsibility has shifted in the relationship". A provocative poem on a delicate subject, it provided a very thoughtful discussion. Bernie, as Geriatrician, offered helpful comments about dementia and how the most difficult stage for families is when the loved one no longer remembers your name. On the 6th line, the adjective "warped" is a curious choice, followed by rose: perhaps to imply an association of the hardness of a rose-granite tabletop, with entering a "time warp".
The note furnished by the poet in Rattle magazine reads: “I write poetry as a way of moving through life, plumbing its shadows—poetry as a torch held aloft, poetry as a stone dropped down a well to see how far it goes. As Robert Irwin said, ‘Art is the placing of your attention on the periphery of knowing,’ and that’s what poetry is for me. All of these poems are also loose or near sonnets, because I’m partial to the simple mechanism of the volta as a realization, as a deepening, as an epiphany—one that arrives for ‘a momentary stay against confusion,’ but then goes its merry way, taking all clarity with it.”
We didn't have time to go into this, as the session was finished abruptly at 1:15.
If one counts to the 8th line, every time you leave, your name slips off, to...
indeed the poem shifts to a different direction of wondering about where one stands in a relationship without name. I do love Robert Frost's explanation of poetry as a "momentary stay against confusion",
and am glad to read the poet's note. Clarity is not a given in poetry which provides us with more questions than answers. We are given instead, a meditative reminder, of the importance of touch, of breath.
At Rundel we discussed December Morning by Merwin and Issa's Porch.
Merwin: There's the sense of a rush of a thought in this unpunctuated poem. Happiness appears as end word on the first, fifth lines and moves to the beginning of the 19th line, (3rd from the end). Does it matter who Paula is? We enjoyed the 6th line "the Fates so near that I can hear them". There is something painfully poignant imagining the old poet by his books. It is not that he is the one faithful to them, as they are to him as "someone they used to know", but rather, the intimation that he has moved on.
This is "late happiness" as in the first poem. Never owned by anyone-- it comes when it will --
rather like those candles that seem to light themselves, the coming of love, of light.
Pittsford O Pen added these reflections: Happiness is mentioned 3 times, but not in as a typical cliché or piece of advice. Merwin is on the brink of blindness, needing to dictate his poems to his wife, Paula,
and gently embraces old age, with gentle hints about darkness of old regrets with their rancor from which he feels released. The late arrival of such happiness is often unplanned, unexpected, and if there is a moral, it is that one need to be open and willing to accept the fullness of a moment.
Issa's Porch. I believe the poet is referring to the haiku master, and of course a haiku would not have a title. Like a haiku, the three lines tease us, as if moving "ice" and "thin" along with "hole" and "argument" so we can skate on thin ice, fall in, and that's the end of the argument. I pass the poem back to you, dear reader, to puzzle with. Porch is intermediary space -- between outside and indoors.
Pittsford O Pen: Issa, as haiku master, is known for dealing with feelings. He suffered severe losses,
and able to let go of perhaps the discomfort of knowing death will have the final word. A porch is a place to relax... out of the elements of hot sun or rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment